The Effect of the Winchesters
by DoctorWhoAngelFan2013
Summary: Emily is running from a world that doesn't make sense. After witnessing the horrible, inexplicable murder of her best friends, she leaves her college campus life behind, in search of something -anything- more comprehensible. Upon a chance encounter, she meets Sam and Dean Winchester, who provide not only answers to her impossible questions, but also a safety she has longed for.
1. Author's Note

**Author's Note:**

Hey everyone! I took down this story back in February because I began submitting to Ao3. However, I decided to put it back up, after some editing and other things. It's changed a bit, and I'm proud to say I'm almost finished! I hope y'all enjoy! :D

As usual, I do not own anything Supernatural related.

Songs referenced are as follows:

"Where Demons Hide" from Imagine Dragons' 'Demons'

'Mad World' (The Jasmine Thompson version)

'Little Lion Man' by Mumford and Sons

If you don't like the format of this (I don't, personally. It's annoying what happens to the docs as they're uploaded on here), you can find me on Ao3 as DestielLove2014.

If you wish to follow me on Tumblr, I'm at .com

Again, I hope you enjoy!


	2. Pie and Promises

Emily

I stare at the phone on the table in front of me. I should call them, I really should. They're my parents. They deserve to at least know I'd left school. They have no idea where I am. Hell, I have no idea where I am. In hindsight, I should have asked someone, in the day that I'd been here, what town this was. It'd be nice to know what state, as well.

Okay, so say I call them. Would they believe me when I give them my reason for leaving? I know they wouldn't. If I were anyone but me, I wouldn't believe me. Everyone else who saw what happened is dead. Eaten. Or worse. Even thinking about what happened throws me into a state of incredulity. No, if I can't believe it, no one else will be able to.

The waitress sets down a mug of coffee, next to the phone, and asks me once more if I'd like anything to eat. I smile and thank her but stick to my guns. Can't afford food at every meal this time around. Besides, I had a sandwich for lunch a few hours back.

I look at the clock on the wall above the restroom. Through the grease caked on its face, it reads 10:41. Guess that sandwich was more than just a few hours ago. I'm going to have to leave soon, whenever this joint closes its doors. If I leave now I can-

A plate slides in front of me, a lone piece of sugar cream pie resting at its center. The waitress from before smiles down at me and points at the register. A tall man with shaggy brown hair waves halfheartedly before exiting the restaurant with a folded paper bag under his arm. I watch through the window as he walks toward a black car, the only one in the parking lot. He hands the driver the bag and stares out of the windshield, looking right at me. I smile my thanks and he nods.

"That's the last of the day's pie, miss. That young man was going to take it, but when he saw you sitting here all alone, he decided to have me give it to you. Pretty nice for a stranger." The waitress tells me. I don't know what else to do, so I just smile. She hands me a fork and goes back to the kitchen, shaking her head at the kindness of young people.

The door to the restaurant jingles open a second time and I look up to see a guy, about thirty years old, walking purposefully towards me. His dark blonde hair is sticking up in a ruffled sort of way, matching his wrinkled jean jacket and shirt. He looked as though he hadn't been out of a car in weeks.

"Step. Away. From. The. Pie." He says. I look around and, realizing I'm the only other patron, say,

"Excuse me?" I am thoroughly confused, but I push the plate away and stand up. The guy is looking at the pie the way a marooned man would look at fresh water.

"I will give you thirty dollars for that piece of pie," he says earnestly. The tall guy from before comes up from behind the shorter one and shakes his head.

"I'm sorry, you'll have to forgive my brother here," Tall guy says. "He's really into the art of Indian giving."

That makes me laugh. The shorter guy, however, scowls and repeats his offer, muttering about how he didn't give me the pie, so he's just making a transaction.

"You really want to give me thirty dollars for a stupid piece of sugar cream pie?" I ask him. I could use thirty dollars at the moment.

"Yes. And it's not stupid. I'll even throw in a ride to anywhere you like because I noticed you don't have a car out there," Short guy says and motions to the parking lot.

"Dean-" Tall guy starts, but I cut him off. Little did either of them know, I could use their help a lot more than I wanted the food on the table.

"You've got yourself a deal," I comply and stick out my hand. He smiles and shakes my hand, introducing himself as Dean.

"This here is Sammy, my little brother," Dean points at the tall guy and they both smile. Since I was going to trust them to take me somewhere – anywhere other than here – I decide to trust them enough to introduce myself.

"I'm Emily. You can call me Em."

"Alright Em. Do you mind if I join you here?" Dean asks, his eyes on the pie. I shake my head and slide back into the booth across from him. Sammy leaves for a moment to retrieve the rest of their food from the car and soon we're all in deep discussion.

§§§

Two cheeseburgers and six cups of coffee later, Dean's asking me about what I'm doing in a blink-and-you-miss-it town.

"You could say I needed a change of scenery," I tell him honestly. He would never understand the truth behind the reason, though, so I give little details beyond that.

"Sammy and I are the kings of needing a change of scenery, right Sam?" Dean says to gain his brother's attention. For the past ten minutes, Sam's been looking around the room as if someone's been watching us.

"Then I'm the queen," I mutter as the hairs on the back of my neck raise. Maybe it was the mere power of suggestion from Sam's unease, but I began to get the feeling something was off. I stand quickly and yank on my coat, ready to be out of here.

Suddenly, a loud crash in the kitchen sends the brothers out of their seats and over the laminate counter. I stare in shock as each of them pull a gun from the back of their jeans. Sam nudges his chin in my direction and Dean nods, before stepping through the swinging door.

"Emily," Sam whispers from his place by the wall. "Come here and take this. Use it on anyone who comes near you, okay? Keep your back to the corner over there." He hands me a long, jagged knife with a dark wooded handle.

"Oh yeah," Sam says after a moment. "Pour the salt from the salt shakers into a small circle and stand in it. Don't move from it."

I obey his strange order and take my place in the corner. From here, I am able to see the entire diner. It's a nice defense tactic. Other than the salt necessity. I watch as Sam slips through the doorway to help Dean with whomever is causing trouble. I am completely alone.

Several more crashes sound, followed by angry shouts and a flash of light. It becomes apparent that no one is leaving the kitchen any time soon. Gripping the blade in my right hand, I leave the salt circled corner and step into the next room.

The scene before me is that of a horror movie. Blood spatters cover the walls and stainless steel appliances. Two people lie in a pool of blood and what appears to be soap bubbles from the nearby dishwasher. Sam is being held to the wall by the sweet waitress from earlier, her hands around his neck in a death-like vice. Dean's wrestling a guy in a white apron, trying desperately to avoid the bubbling oil of the fryer behind him.

"My Lord will be so pleased to learn of your death," said the waitress venomously. Sam tears frantically at her fingers and I know what I need to do. Leaping across the small space, I plunge the blade into the waitress's back. She gives a loud shriek and suddenly a thick, black smoke pours from her mouth. She falls in a heap, her body mirroring an abandoned marionette puppet. Sam coughs and lands on the ground – I hadn't realized he'd been raised in the air – before grabbing the knife from me and stabbing the cook. Again, the same black smoke pours from the guy's mouth and he, too, is left to fall, dead.

"Why the hell didn't we smell the sulfur when we walked in, Sam?" Dean demands angrily as he stares at the now empty bodies that litter the floor. I don't know what he means about sulfur, or what salt could have done to protect me from whatever those monsters were, but I do know it's my fault. This can't be a coincidence. Monsters are real, and they're after me. All because I'd escaped with my life.

"They weren't here when we walked in," Sam says after a moment, eyeing the other two dead bodies. Dean wipes his mouth, which has been bleeding, and shakes his head.

"At least we didn't waste any of these devil's trap bullets," is all he says before leaving the kitchen completely. I follow close behind, but not quick enough to miss what Sam does next.

"Cas?" Sam calls out. "We need your help with some, ah, house cleaning."

I hear a brief flapping noise and turn to see another man, around Dean's age, in a tan trench coat. He says something, then waves his hand through the air and the mess is cleared.

"Are you guys coming or not?" Dean sticks his head through the doorway just as the man disappears as fast as he'd arrived. "Was that Cas?" He asks, clearly surprised. I shrug.

"Uh, yeah. Didn't think we should leave the place a mess," Sam explains and steps forward to leave the kitchen. Dean backs away and I follow them both out of the now vacant diner. Before exiting completely, though, I turn off the light, as if to give some semblance of normality to the situation.

Dean starts their car and I slide into the front seat while Sam settles in the back. It feels weird. I can tell he normally sits in this seat, but I don't say anything. My mind races with so many questions as Dean steers the car down the snow-sprinkled highway. Who were the people with the black smoke inside of them? How did Sam and Dean know about monsters and how to kill them? Who was the mysterious teleporting guy? Where were we going? Yet, through all of these questions, the one I bring myself to ask is about the car.

"What model is it?" I tap the dashboard lightly and look at Dean. He grins and turns the classic rock down.

"Baby's a '67 Impala," he boasts proudly. "Restored her myself, many a time." Sam chuckles from the backseat and I can tell I've asked the right question. The atmosphere has improved considerably and soon Dean is rambling on about his pride and joy.

"Baby?" The car's name is clichéd, but loved. I'm not disrespecting it. It's just a curious choice for a moniker.

"Sam and me, we don't have kids. We don't have girlfriends. We have each other, the open road, and this car. She's my baby," he explains. I nod my understanding and go back to listening to him alternate between talking about the car and singing along with whatever song is playing on the radio. I'm tired. I'd much rather listen than participate in conversation.

§§§

When Dean nudges me awake, my eyes have been closed for a minute. Not even that – maybe thirty seconds. Yet when I glance at the clock on my phone, it's been three hours since our last stop. After wiping the sleep from my eyes and stretching, I note that we've arrived at some shady-looking motel. Sam is nowhere to be found.

"Sammy's checking us in," Dean says, as if reading my mind.

"Do you need any help bringing this stuff in?" Is my response. Their duffel bags had served as my pillow during the drive here. Sam insisted earlier that I stretch out and sleep when I began to yawn. I secretly think he was just relieved to have his spot back.

"No! Not at all. You just stand there and, uh. Just stand there," Dean tells me and heaves the bags over his shoulder. I can see him struggle under all of the weight and wonder why he doesn't make two trips. Or have his brother take the other bag. Whatever. Must be a male thing. Just then, Sam strolls up, key in hand, and announces we have room 211.

You'd have to be really sick of driving to want to stay in this place. The room features two beds, an old TV, a broken down couch, and a table with two mismatched chairs. The bathroom ceiling is falling down above the shower and the toilet keeps running. It's probably the worst place I've stayed in, but I can't complain. Not only have they promised to take me to wherever I want to go, the brothers saved my life. If they hadn't been at the diner when they were, there is no doubt in my mind that I would have been killed.

Although it is almost four in the morning, Dean plops down on the couch and turns on the TV. He gives an angry snort, however, when he realizes it offers nothing more than ten channels of static.

"I need a beer. Do we have any beer?" He asks Sam. Sam, busy brushing his teeth, sticks his head out of the bathroom and says something incoherent. Dean curses under his breath and looks at me for the first time since the parking lot.

"Okay, Sleepy, what's your story?" The older brother asks me. I want to roll my eyes at him – it's too early for me explain all of the details of what's happened – but I refrain from doing so and ask, "Did you just call me a dwarf from Snow White?"

Dean merely laughs and continues to stare me down, as politely as he could, I'm sure. I deflect the question onto him, catching him off-guard.

"What's your story, tough guy? It's not every day I meet a guy who worships pie but goes around with a revolver down his pants."

"So you're saying all the other pie-worshipping guys you've met don't save your ass when it needs saving?" He counters. I see a spark in his eyes, like he's enjoying this little banter between the two of us.

"If I recall, it was me who killed that waitress," I remind him, thinking of that horrible blade and the surprising power it wielded. I didn't think there was any weapon that could take down monsters or whatever the hell she was, anyway.

"And it was Sam who saved my bacon." Dean replies quickly. "But none of that would have happened if you hadn't been there. So, since I've been so kind to not only save you, but to provide you with this fine example of shelter, I think I deserve to know what brought you to that diner in the first place. We both know it wasn't the pie."

I smile despite myself. He's both funny and right. I sigh and push through my frustration. May as well get it over with.

"I didn't think I would tell anyone what really happened. But after tonight," I swallow the lump that rises in my throat. "If anyone would believe me, it would be you guys."

Dean nods and Sam comes from the bathroom to join us. To my surprise, he pushes the broken down chair away and slides his back down the wall to sit on the floor. I move my feet so he can stretch his long legs out in front of himself. It reminds me of something a kid might do, not a grown man.

"Anyway," I continue. "Two months ago, my friends and I all went to a big Halloween party on campus. Thomas and his girlfriend Nicole, my friend Ally and her roommate Melanie, and me and my roommate Alex. The party was fine, but I didn't drink, so I didn't have as much fun as they all had. I was the DD."

"Around one, the place emptied out fairly quickly. I remember thinking everyone left to just go to the next party. One am is too early for college kids to call it quits. So one moment, we're looking for car keys and IDs and the next, my English professor shows up. He started hitting on Ally and Melanie, and they were just falling all over themselves because Professor Jordan was so good-looking. Then when," my voice begins to shake at the memory, "I went to get our coats, other people, people from the party showed up. They all gathered near everyone, closing them in. I thought it was really absurd, but they kept going on and on about how hungry they were. And then, they did it."

By now I'm clutching my arms inside my jacket and it's getting hard for me to breathe properly. Like, if I tell them what happened, it makes it even more real.

"What did they do?" Sam urges me to finish telling them. I want to shut my eyes and when I open them again, this will all have been a dream.

"They swallowed everyone whole. I don't know why Professor Jordan left me alone. Maybe he wanted to save me for later, maybe he didn't see me, but as they feasted on my friends, I slipped away and left campus. I went back to my apartment for a change of clothes and my money, my phone charger, and my ID. I haven't contacted my family and I haven't been back since."

"Leviathan?" Sam asks no one in particular. I don't know what a 'Leviathan' is, but if it's anything similar to what I saw, I'm sure I don't want to know.

Dean stares at me for a few minutes and mutters something unintelligible. Then, he stands, as if I hadn't just told him the horror movie that is my life, and announces that we should all "get some shut-eye".

"You get the couch, Sam. Leave the other bed for Emily."

§§§

I'm brushing my teeth when someone knocks on the bathroom door. It's been an hour since I told the guys what happened. An hour that's passed in relative silence. I don't understand it, but six in the morning is not the time to demand answers. So, I'm not expecting Dean to be on the other side of the door, and I'm certainly not expecting more than a request for me to leave the bathroom.

"Hey. Uh. I know we haven't really gotten off on the right foot so, I can understand, after what you've been through, you being a little scared." He says to the ground. He seems nervous, which is a first all night. Sam snores loudly in the next room and we both chuckle after a minute of listening to him.

"Basically, I wanted to tell you that as long as you're with us. You're safe. I'll still take you wherever you wanna go. But if you wanted to stick with us, I promise, we'll keep you safe."

I hold up my finger and turn to the running water in the sink, spitting out the awkward bit of toothpaste that's lingering in my mouth. Once I'm sure none of the minty stuff is still on my chin, I rinse my hands and dry my face.

"Thank you, Dean. I appreciate that," I tell him, because I do. He shrugs and goes back to the beds, an effective goodnight gesture if there ever was one.


	3. Where Demons Hide

Dean

It's been two days since the diner incident, and I can't wrap my head around it. Demons and the mutated Leviathans. How does this girl fall into two para-freaky experiences in the course of two months? We haven't spoken much more on the deal; Sam's been busy hunting down a case just to keep up a routine. I can't make up my mind about how much we should tell her. But after making a promise like I did the other night, I really don't have much of a choice than to include her in on everything.

Only, where to begin? Do I cram Dad's journal down her throat and demand that she memorize it like some growly ape? Will she be like Charlie and bug off after getting what she needs? Not that I blame the chick. She's got her own thing to worry about. Especially after working for Dick friggin' Roman. Wanting something normal, if you can swing it, isn't something to turn your nose up at. Then again, if she chooses to stay, and we do teach her stuff, maybe we should question her motives. Who just joins in on the hunt after two days?

"What hunt?" Emily asks as she comes out of the bathroom. Damn. Didn't realize I'd spoken out loud.

"Nothing. Just something Sam's looking up," I cover quickly. Stupid gray area. Still not sure what we can and can't tell her.

"Oh. Is that why he's at the library?" She asks as she straightens her side of the room. She's like Sam in that respect, I've noticed. Always cleaning up after herself in a shit hole of a motel. It'd be more annoying if it wasn't so interesting. She's so considerate – more so than I've encountered with girls in the past. Like the other night, when she offered to carry in the stupid bags. And yesterday, when she gathered all of the trash in the room and divided it into freaking piles for recycling. Even Sam had a laugh at that one, and he's been trying to get me to go green for years.

"Yeah. He should be back any time now." Thank God for that, too. I'm practically going stir-crazy with this whole locked-in-another-motel-room bit. I can't wait to get home to my room. Oh well. At least he didn't take the car. Oh wait. The car.

"What time is it?" I ask Em as I drag myself off the bed and look for my keys. They're underneath the couch; must've fallen out of my pocket the other night when I discovered the damned TV doesn't work.

"Almost ten. Why?" She asks, her voice full of suspicion. I hide my grin with my back to her and tell her to get her coat on. We're going drinking, Dean Winchester style.

§§§

No surprise, the bar is a complete dive. Not like Jo and Ellen's, where only hunters gathered at the watering hole. Here, there are no hot girls to even think about hitting on. Just drunk, middle-aged guys who're practically crying into their glasses. Luckily, after letting Em choose where we sit, she selects a nondescript booth in the back corner. There's a perfect view of the entire joint, from bathroom to entrance. She's catching on already.

"What'll you have?" The Marty McFly wannabe waiter asks the both of us. The dude actually has a puffy red vest on. I almost comment on it when Emily surprises me for the fiftieth time since meeting her.

"Do you have any lemonade?" Lemonade. The girl wants lemonade. And probably not even the good stuff.

"This isn't a Walmart. If you want Mike's Hard, go somewhere else," the douchey waiter tells her. Then he turns to me, waiting for my response. "What about you?"

Damn the guy's quick to piss me off. Can't he see the innocence in her eyes? I fight off the sudden urge to take his head off and say, "Whiskey. Leave the bottle."

The guy comes back a few minutes later with the bottle and two shot glasses. Emily looks at hers like it's going to grow legs and start talking to her. The guy scoffs and rolls his eyes before turning to leave our table.

"Hey, asshole!" I call out to him. Haven't had a drop to drink yet and already this night's getting interesting. He turns around, looking even more annoyed.

"Marty McFly called. He wants his vest back." Okay. Not my proudest moment. Not by a long shot. It still felt good to insult him and his douchey wardrobe, though.

"That's cool. The eighties called. They want their insults back," is his smart-ass reply. I stand, fully intending to punch his face in. A small hand on my arm stops me, though. It's Emily, and she doesn't have to say anything for me to sit back down.

Defeated, I tip the bottle back and take a long pull straight from its mouth. Em doesn't seem to mind, in spite of her looking ready to jump out of her skin at any second. If anyone needed to relax, it was her. So I take her glass and fill it to the top. Why not go all in, balls first?

"You've never drank, have you?" I ask her as I watch her eye the shot warily. She smiles shyly and shakes her head, those loose, blonde curls of hers almost shining despite the low lighting of the bar. I pour my own shot and lift it in the air.

"Bottoms up."

She raises hers and, after watching me down mine, takes a timid sip. As expected, she grimaces and moves to set it back down. I stick my hand out under it, though, to stop her.

"Just do it. You won't die," I tell her. "People need to loosen up every once in a while." The gears in her mind are turning, and I can almost see the little angel and devil on either of her shoulders, ordering her what to do. Ha. Angel and devil. Now that's funny. And I really laugh, at which Em flashes me this little defiant look before swallowing the entire shot of whiskey.

She doesn't know I hadn't been laughing at her, but it did the trick. Except now, she's sputtering and coughing and I really am laughing at her. She reaches for the bottle and fills the glass, sucking the amber liquid down once more. Whoah. Damn.

We continue like this for the rest of the night, until finally, the bottle is bone dry. Em's heavy-eyed and has started tapping out a beat on the table like she's Tre Cool from freaking Green Day. Wait. I know that beat. It's the song that's playing over the radio. Bad Company by Bad Company. What sick guitar. And the words are pretty much the Winchester life.

"Bad company, until the day I die!" I pick up the ketchup bottle from the end of our table and turn it upside down. It's the perfect microphone. The drumming on the table gets louder and everyone is looking at me, but I keep going until the song ends.

"Man that was awesome!" I yell to no one in particular. Em laughs at me and stands up shakily. Okay. Time to go. Don't want the drinking virgin to spew French fries all over the place.

I help her to the car and find that unlocking the passenger door is harder than it has been in a while. Probably shouldn't have taken the rest of that guy's bourbon. It's not like he minded all that much. He was too busy playing sleepover on the floor.

"Alcohol lowers your inhibitions and your reaction time, did you know?" Em slurs to me as I struggle to fit the key in the stupid ignition. Except it sounds like one run on sentence, so it takes a few minutes to sink in. Yet another similarity between her and Sam. Not only is she apparently smart, she's also an informative drunk. I wonder briefly if she'll get emotional like Sammy does, too. Oh Lord I hope not.

"Okay, smarty pants. We're gonna have to sleep this one off in the car," I've realized if I can't start the car, I probably shouldn't try to drive. If she weren't with me, it wouldn't be a problem. I expect her to protest, but she's already curled up in a sleepy ball, the passenger seat lowered as far as it can go.

"Don't puke in the car," she murmurs before nodding off. I'm not entirely sure if she was reminding herself or me. If it's the latter, she clearly has no idea of my tolerance level. But it's nice to see she cares about Baby.

§§§

The beginning blare of ACDC's Thunderstruck breaks me out of the near coma I was drifting into. Through my tired eyes, I search for my cell and answer it without having to look at the ID. Sam's been a sucker for Thunderstruck.

"Yo?" I say into the speaker. Early morning sun pours through the windshield and I realize how cold I am in the little warmth the sun provides. My head is killing me and I hear a weird shivering sound.

"Where the fuck are you?" Sam demands angrily. Oh. Must've forgot to write him a note. Oops.

"Some bar, about twenty miles away," I tell him. "Drank a little too much, and didn't want to drive with Emily in the car." Emily. That's where the shivering's coming from. "Oh, shit."

I look over to see her arms tucked around herself, her head buried between her jacket and the space between the seat and the door.

"What's wrong? Did she get sick?" He asks, now slightly worried.

"Not that I can tell," I reply. "It's just really fucking cold, and we've been sleeping without the heat on."

"Oh. Well, get your ass back here. I found some stuff about a few missing students, including an Emily Bellefleur, back around Halloween."

"Got it. See you soon."

The phone goes silent and I toss it into the backseat before reaching around to grab a couple bottles of water. I'm lucky in my search and find one of Sam's rabbit granola bars.

"Emily. Em. Wake up." I nudge her with the water and leave both the food and the bottle on the floor by her feet. Starting the Impala wakes her, and she sighs and stretches before righting her body in the seat. We're on the highway before she says anything.

"My head hurts. And it's sweltering in here," she says and moves the vents to face me. I swallow my snort and tell her she can take pain reliever when we get back. Which reminds me of Sam's news, which she should know about.

"Apparently you and your friends were labelled 'missing persons', back wherever you're from. Sam has some info, and we're going to go over it at the motel."

"Who are you guys?" Em gives me this long, calculating look and it almost creeps me out how calm she is. There's nothing to tether her to either Sam or I; why is she so curious and helpful?

"Could ask you the same question," I retort. Another thing I've noticed about her – she's great at dodging questions. Maybe she really would be a good fit for the team.

"No, you couldn't. I told you who I am. I told you where I was two months ago, and how I got here. You haven't said a word about where you're from or how you knew how to kill the black smoke things," she argues. Black smoke things?

"You mean the demons we killed at the diner?" I'm shocked she really didn't know what a demon was.

"Those were demons? Like, Lucifer's henchmen?" Her question is ridiculous, as well as the incredulity in her voice. I'd tell her as much, but something tells me she wouldn't be able to appreciate the explanation.

"Yes, they were demons. No, they're not ruled by Lucifer. He's just a bastard who's locked up in a padded cell, where he belongs. The demons, they belong to a guy called Crowley. As for where we're from, we don't have a hometown with a Hallmark family. Our parents are dead, because of the demons. That's our story. You happy?"

Emily is quiet. I've been a dick, and I know it. I should apologize before we get back. Don't want Sam to be on me for hurting the little girl's feelings.

"I'm sorry for your loss," she says as we near the motel. I turn into the parking lot and bite my tongue.

"It's fine." We park and sit in the quiet before I continue with my question. "How are you so nice?"

I've taken her aback with my bluntness. She gives a short laugh and shakes her head at something. It's frustrating, always being surprised by this girl. At least with Sam, I know everything. And Cas is about as open a book as an angel can be. But her – Em? Not so much.

"Caring too much has always been my biggest flaw," she says to the dashboard. "I ran away, telling myself that I was done caring about my past. Turns out, I really ran to save my family and whoever else I knew at school. If I'm not there, if I escaped after seeing them for who they were, it would draw them away, right?"

I nod, finally beginning to see her point. I start to say something, but she keeps talking, interrupting me.

"So I don't see it as me being nice. I see it as, knowing how much pain is in the world for everyone and trying my hardest to either alleviate it or, in the very least, contribute to it as little as possible."

This time, I don't have anything to say to that. It's too early, and my head hurts too much to try to come up with an response. All I know is, after growing up and living a life like ours, you've got to find your own reasons for moving on. Hers were the least selfish I'd ever heard. And once again, in so few words, she has rendered me speechless.

"I think it's a djinn," Sam greets us when he opens the door. When we step inside, I make a face; the place reeks like his aftershave and mushroom pizza. Sure enough, half of Sam's favorite vegetable pie is resting on the counter by the sink. Em wrinkles her nose and says, "Ew. Mushrooms."

I hold my arm out and gesture at her. "See? I'm not the only one, Sam."

He rolls his eyes and shrugs, insisting we eat at least two pieces each in order to soak up the remaining alcohol.

§§§

An hour, three pieces of pizza, and two showers later, Em and I are ready to hear my brother's theory. It takes longer, however, to explain everything to our guest.

"Okay, it's not a regular djinn," Sam concedes. "It's the kind that feeds on fear, like the one Charlie met."

I nod and wonder what has brought Sam to his conclusion. Em, as always, is trying to follow along.

"A djinn," I inform her, "is a sort of genie that feeds on someone's blood." One look at her face tells me to keep going.

"Sam and I have met a few over the years. They takes you and inject you with a sort of hallucinogenic drug to keep you from leaving. The 'nice' ones make you hallucinate your wildest dreams. So while you're knocked out and enjoying whatever the hell life you're experiencing, the djinn is sucking the life out of you."

"But the one we're dealing with," Sam takes over, "is one that uses fear to entrap its victims. Instead of your wildest dreams coming true, you're stuck in your worst nightmare."

"So how does that explain what happened to my friends?" Em asks. I exchange a look with Sam because I really don't have an answer for her.

"That is what we are trying to figure out," Sam tells her. She nods slowly and picks at the fraying fabric of the couch before looking back up at us.

"Okay, so now will you tell me how you guys know all of this? I mean, I've never heard of any classes you can take, relating to Monster 101." She looks torn between curiosity and revulsion. Curiosity is obviously winning out.

§§§

It takes the rest of the day to tell her everything. After a brief discussion between Sam and me, we decided it was best to lay everything down for her. When we finish, Sam leaves her with Dad's journal, as well as all of the notes the little brain has accumulated with my knowledge. Em is quiet while she reads every last word we've recorded about every monster we've encountered. I expect her to bombard me with more questions once she reaches the end, but she simply returns the journal to one of the duffel bags before settling into bed.

I look at Sam. Should we talk to her? He shrugs, shakes his head, and informs me he's going on a food run. Do I want anything? I tell him the usual, meaning pie and a giant-ass cheeseburger. But it's almost midnight and I'm exhausted. I struggle to keep my eyes open and finally opt for the bed, abandoning my post on the couch. Sam's been gone for ten minutes when I pass out altogether.

The cold air is stale here, putrid with the lingering scent of blood and scorched flesh. Everyone imagines this place to be a roiling furnace of insanity. And it was, some time ago. But whoever's in charge – Crowley? Lucifer? – has switched the temperature dial to the liquid nitrogen setting. My breath, shallow from the ribs I'm sure are broken, comes out in small, desperate puffs. I'm still breathing. Small wonders.

Turning my head, I see I'm arranged, spread eagle, on a stone wall. My hands and feet are secured by steel cuffs. A rusted operating table sits before me, looking out of place with the rest of the room's dungeon feel. A body rests at the center, its owner unconscious. However, the person wakes as a curved blade descends into the middle of his chest. The guy's head turns toward me, his crumpled visage unmistakably familiar.

The pain is unbearable as I watch the scythe slice through Sam's chest. His silent screams are heard in my head and mine alone; it is just Sam and I here. Lucifer, I know, is around somewhere. His hands are the conductors of my brother's demise. And I remain chained to the wall, forced to watch the agony I'd always worked so hard to prevent, take place.

Too soon, though, Sam is reduced to nothingness, and Cas takes his place on the table. Pinned down by a few bloody anvils, his wings, now broken and bruised, are fully visible. Cas' face is scrunched tight, and when he opens his eyes, the light in them has been distinguished.

He pleads with me to save him. His cries serve as the soundtrack to his murder. Once again, silence falls. I don't know what's worse in this place – the torturing or the silence that inevitably follows.

At least I know Sam and Cas are safe now, up in Heaven. There's nothing there to hold them down, to fail them. Not when I'm left here to replay their tormented images over in my head, the blades of Lucifer's hands carving slowly across my stomach. Amazingly enough, the knives are nothing compared to my most recent memories. And I know well enough to keep my mouth shut. My pleas would fall on deaf ears; I am their one triumph, here for the frequent-flyer package.

"Dean?" The demon taunts me, filling his words with mock concern. "Dean! Wake up!"

A damp hand on my shoulder rouses me from sleep. It was all a dream. Just a dream. That left my chest in pain. I shudder involuntarily; flashes from what seemed like moments ago raid my head.

Peering through the dark motel room, I see from the alarm clock that it's almost four in the morning. Sammy's snoring loudly from the couch and I contemplate screaming at him to shut the hell up. My head hurts. But I'd readily take the snores over his shouts of pain.

Emily sits on the edge of the bed, her hands clutching one of those dusty motel cups. She's giving me an overly sympathetic look, as if I'd just told her my dog died.

"Here," she says and hands me the cup. "Drink this."

I take it from her and find it's just plain water. The edges are wet, which would explain the damp hand that touched me. I down the whole thing and set it on the bed stand harder than I intended to.

"Was I shouting?" I ask her after a minute. I'm grateful for having been woken up, but I hope I didn't wake her in the process.

"No. You were crying. I couldn't sleep, and heard you whimpering. So I thought you needed some water."

I have no idea why crying in your sleep equates water but whatever. It did the trick. I feel better already. Aside from the whole having a girl know I cried, part.

"My mom used to get me water when I had nightmares as a kid. She told me it calms you down by making you feel stronger. You know when you go a while without drinking anything and suddenly you feel like you're just going to die if you don't get a drink right now?" Emily rambles without waiting for an answer. "When you do finally get that drink, it is so refreshing and satisfying that nothing seems wrong any longer."

I kinda get what she means but I'm too tired to say so. All I want is to fall back asleep and pretend this never happened, but I know as soon as I close my eyes, I'll be back, chained to the wall.

I thank her for the water and climb under the covers, pulling my shirt off in the process. Em averts her eyes and mumbles something before returning to her bed. I've effectively ended the conversation, that much is clear. I'm left to stare at the ceiling, with the ridiculous mirror overhead, for the rest of the night.


	4. The Silhouette of Our Past

Emily

The next day passes without my being conscious for it. After Dean fell asleep, and I was left awake in the next bed, I spent a considerable amount of time reflecting on everything I'd learned. And I couldn't believe how I'd rambled on the way I did. My eyes didn't find rest until dawn had nearly broke. I smiled before the waves of sleep pulled me under; Sam was sawing logs in a very determined fashion.

When I finally wake, the boys announce we're leaving: headed to Michigan. Part of me wants to protest; I really didn't want to go back to school. A bigger part, however, argued that even more innocent people didn't deserve to suffer just because I was scared. Which is really what prompted me to get everything into gear and into the car.

§§§

"So what made you think this was a djinn?" Dean asks Sam in the front seat. It's been five hours since we left that motel. I'm in the back, nestled among our bags, reading that journal again. Some parts are harder to discern than others; their father's writing alternates between legible and harried scripts.

"Garth," is Sam's reply. The foreign name grasps my attention and I close the old book over my hand to hold the page.

"Really? Since when do you get all 'buddy-buddy' with Garth?" Dean flies past a toll booth, not bothering to stop and pay. I don't know how he could do it with good conscience.

"Sounds like you're jealous," Sam teases, a witty grin plastered on his face. Dean raises a hand from the wheel to shove his brother. Sam, recovering from the move, laughs once more before answering Dean's question.

"Since Wednesday, when you took Em to get drunk," Sam hooks his thumb toward me and smiles lightly. "The dude called, saying he had a hunch about one and thought he could use our help. I asked where and he described the town she's from."

"But how'd you discover it's a fear djinn?" Dean presses further, asking the question that rested on my lips.

"Well, it's obvious, isn't it?" Sam pauses for effect before continuing. "Emily thought she her closest friends get devoured by other people. That's pretty terrifying."

My stomach drops when I realize what he's saying. I'd been fed on by a djinn. But how could I have forgotten that?

"How can I not remember?" I ask while Dean says, "How'd she get away?"

"That," Same replies, "I don't know. But it's where we're headed, so maybe we'll find out more when we get there."

Dean doesn't say another word, apparently satisfied with Sam's answer. But something else doesn't quite add up to me.

"What about my friends?" I ask as Dean steers the Impala toward the umpteenth exit we've taken today. "Why are they labelled missing if I was the one the djinn attacked?"

"Good question. Sam?" Dean looks to his brother for a further explanation. The younger brother merely shrugs in response. It seems as though all of our answers lie where we're headed.

§§§

Once we arrive on the outskirts of town, Dean's driving improves considerably. He mumbles about not trusting his car in college towns as I direct off the interstate and onto campus. Sam is fairly quiet, just gazing silently out his window. I try to ignore the anxiety rising in my chest. The last time I was here, I was lucky to get out alive.

Sam's phone rings – the only phone without a unique ringtone – and breaks the silence. I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding and wait to hear the conversation.

"Garth. You did? Okay…Yeah…Well we're on University Boulevard now…Sure. See you soon."

Dean and I stare at Sam, waiting for his explanation as we're forced to idle at the longest red light of the century.

"Garth said to go through the intersection and take a left on Seeley Avenue. He's eating lunch at Sir Isaac's Bar and Grille."

Sir Isaac's. I'd spent many nights studying there with Mel and Alex. The round booth by the door was ours every Tuesday and Thursday, sophomore and junior years. Mikey, one of the bartenders, would hit on Alex shamelessly, even when he knew the guy wasn't gay. Nonetheless, I think he'd been determined to turn him.

I'm pulled from the memory as Dean circles the parking lot, searching for a spot that's good enough for Baby. Sam sighs at his brother's determination and takes off his seatbelt – eager, I'm sure, to stretch his long legs. After five minutes, Dean finally pulls into the space farthest from the street. As soon as the car stops, Sam's out the door and heading toward the restaurant. Shaking his head, Dean eyes me in the rearview mirror.

"Ready?" He asks. I look away and make myself busy by stuffing my notebook and the journal into my bag.

"It's probably time to call them, Em," he says. "I'll be inside with Sam and Garth. Garth-" Dean chuckles. "You'll like him. The kid grows on you."

And with that, he leaves me to sit staring at my phone in my hands. I think of the lie I'd concocted with the boys a few nights ago. It's believable, for a college senior. I left for a month and half to 'find myself'. But now I'm ready to come back and rejoin society. It's one-third truth, two-thirds lie. I left, but I'm not ready to come back. And I certainly didn't find myself. Just Dean. And Sam.

I decide to call home instead of someone's cell phone. It's a Saturday, which means Mom's probably baking and Neil, my stepdad, is probably trying to coerce my siblings to decorate for Christmas, if they haven't already done so.

"Hello?" Elan, my oldest brother answers the phone after a few rings. His deep voice is strained, as if he'd been crying. All at once, my fear drains from my body only to be replaced with guilt.

"Elan," I breathe out sharply and stumble through my thoughts. I hadn't anticipated to hear from him; he lives with his wife, Allison, in Boston.

"Em?!" There's a huge commotion in the background, like hundreds of voices shouting over one another, then a rustling as someone else takes the phone.

"Emily? Is that you?" My sister, Elena, demands. "I told you she'd be okay!" She shouts to someone in the room. She's Elan's twin, putting her six years older than me, but the wave of emotion in her voice makes her sound so much younger. I have to swallow a few times before I can say anything.

"Yes, Len. It's me."

The shouting continues for the next few minutes, accompanied by a few laughs and what sound like sobs.

"Are you okay?" Someone asks through the phone. I'm a blubbering mess by now, sniffing so hard that I can't tell who I'm speaking with.

"Yes," I reply after clearing my throat. "I needed to get away from school for a while, and hadn't meant to take as long of a break as I did."

"Emily Grace Bellefleur how dare you terrify us that way?" A southern voice – my mother – demands angrily. In any other circumstance of her using my entire name, I would have gotten defensive, but I am so relieved to hear her that it doesn't matter.

"I know, mom. I'm really, truly sorry."

§§§

I had to wait until the crying had stopped before leaving the Impala. My face is red and swollen, but I don't care. Tears of relief are better than tears of loss. I'm sure the guys understand that notion.

My family refused to end the call until I promised to be home as soon as I could manage it. Upon making such a promise, I was informed my apartment was still mine to live in. I hadn't stopped to consider the place for a moment, but I'm sure Sam and Dean would prefer staying there over another terrible motel room.

The warmth of Isaac's wraps me in a snug grip and I'm grateful for the familiar atmosphere. Mike's wiping the counter, but for naught. Aside from Sam, Dean, and the guy we're meeting, the place is empty. Not much of a surprise on a chilly, December Saturday.

"Well look what the cat dragged in!" Mikey calls out once he notices me by the door. I grin at him and head to the counter.

"Lemonade?" He asks though the glass is already half-filled. I hear a loud snort behind me, surely Dean, but ignore it and accept the drink.

"Thanks Mike. How's it going?"

"Oh, with the snow, it's slower than hell during Baptism season in here," the man quips. I giggle, pleased to hear my friends chuckling along with me. "But enough about me. C'mere." Mikey motions for me lean closer to him, so I do. "Word on the street is you're missing. What're you doing here?"

I lean closer to him and try to keep my face as straight as possible with my response. "Drinking lemonade," I whisper.

The bartender is quiet for a moment before his eyes grow wide and he slaps me with the towel he'd been using to wipe the counter.

"Don't be a smartass, Miss Bellefleur."

I giggle once more and hop off the stool in front of him to join my friends. He shakes his head in fake disappointment, but I can tell he's as happy to see me as I am him.

"Bellefleur?" Garth asks as soon as I sit down. "You're French?" I look at him for a moment before answering. He's around Sam's age and scrawnier than I thought was possible for a guy. His hair is mousy brown and he's wearing a nice business suit. He smiles a goofy greeting and waits for me to reply.

"Uh, my mom's from New Orleans. My biological dad was half Creole. So yeah, I guess I'm part French."

"Do you speak any of it?"

I nod before saying, "Juste un peu."

His face lights up and he launches into this horribly pronounced dialogue that I can barely understand. Thankfully, Sam clears his throat, and Dean gives him a look that shuts him up.

"Anyway," Sam says, obviously wanting to continue whatever part of the conversation I'd interrupted. "If we're gonna hunt down this thing, we should probably find a place to stay first. Garth, do you have a room anywhere?"

The other man gives an awkward laugh and shakes his head at Sam's question, as if it were completely unreasonable and asinine.

"The Garth-ster can stick the cold out in his El Camino."

Dean whistles and shakes his head at his giant cheeseburger, grumbling about missing home. I can't believe the guy referred to himself as 'the Garth-ster'.

"You can come to my apartment," I blurt out all of a sudden. All three guys turn to me, grinning like idiots at the notion of staying somewhere other than a motel or a cold car.

"Awesome," Garth says at the same time as Dean.

"Thank you," Sam emphasizes and shakes his head at his brother's manners. I smile at them, happy to help with the situation.

"My pleasure," I tell them honestly, thankful I can finally contribute something positive.

§§§

Getting the guys into my apartment proves to be a formidable task – formidable because I hate having to lie even more than I already have. It's almost midnight when we arrive – Sam had wanted a complete tour of campus – so Allen, the night desk guy, is guarding the entrance like a man who takes his job way too seriously. Dean and Garth piggyback behind Sam and I and sneak into the hallway up ahead, as we check in at the desk.

"Hi, Allen," I greet the young guy. His face slides up to study mine and his eyes grow wide, like Mike's from earlier.

"Emily! You're back!" He whisper-shouts. My cheeks grow red as I realize just how many people I left behind without a second thought. Even Allen, the strangely dedicated student who served as the night desk watchman, had been worried. Sam clears his throat from beside me and I'm snapped back to reality.

"Yes! And this is Sam, my-" the word already feels foreign on the top of my tongue, "boyfriend."

Sam gives a convincing smile before placing an equally convincing hand around my waist. I steel myself for a moment before relaxing.

"Oh, hey man," Allen says and rummages in the desk drawers beside him. "I'm gonna need you to fill this form out, just so we know who's in the building."

"Right," Sam agrees and produces an identical form, already filled out, from his pocket. "I forgot to turn this in earlier, right babe?" He gives my side a squeeze and I shake my head at him, rolling my eyes for good measure.

"You'd forget your head if it wasn't attached to your body," I tease him before taking the form and signing it. Allen grabs the proffered form and inspects it thoroughly before letting us continue to the bank of elevators.

§§§

Dean and Garth are waiting, looking bored out of their minds, and give us a funny look. Sam's hand is still resting above my hip and I'd forgotten all about it.

"Sorry," Sam offers and removes his hand just as I step away. All I can say is, "You're fine," without making it more awkward.

When we step into the elevator, I press the button for the sixth floor and wait in silence. Garth, who'd been talking nonstop about the music in the hallway, won't shut up.

"Dude," Dean finally says once the doors open onto my floor, "Tone down the chatter, Energizer Bunny."

Garth opens his mouth but closes it after another glance at Dean. The elevator dings three, four, five times, before stopping on the sixth floor. Home.

"Nice place," Dean comments when we step into the entryway. The air is stale and flipping on the lights is like travelling to the past. My various textbooks are spread across the dining table, surrounded by little tubes of makeup from Halloween night. Alex's soccer jersey is draped over the bar connected to the kitchen. His bag is resting on the floor, unzipped and forgotten. Post-it notes cover the wall with the university calendar, reminding me of mid-terms that had yet to be taken and study sessions that couldn't be missed. It's funny now, as I study the notes that had been written in haste. Priorities from two months ago no longer seem important. What good are test results when life is at stake?

"Thanks," I say after studying the room. It's as if I am seeing the room from the Winchester's eyes, for the first time. The kitchen on the right, overlooking the combined dining room and living room. The door by the TV, leading to a bathroom. The other doors leading respectively to my room, Alex's, and a closet. The glass door giving way to a small balcony. Everything has a place and, with the exception of the previously noted things on the table and floor, everything is in said space.

I look up and find the guys staring at me expectantly. I've missed something. Most likely an important question, from their looks.

"Sorry, what?" I make myself busy by clearing the table, throwing the make-up away and gathering my textbooks and notebooks. As I walk to my room, Dean asks about sleeping arrangements. Oh yeah. That would be an issue.

§§§

"So what's your major?" Sam asks me in the darkness. Dean's taken over my room while Garth 'called' Alex's room, resigning Sam and I to the couch and floor. I shift to face him and rest my chin on my arm before answering. A giggle rises in my chest because I know how it will be perceived.

"Library science," I say into the pillow. He asks me to repeat, like everyone else does, so I do.

"Library science." I can almost hear the judging tone in his voice. Most likely thinking I'm a nerd, or that I'm lying to him.

"I know. I'm a geek." I stare at the ceiling and wait for my eyes to adjust further. The lights have been out a good ten minutes and I'm fairly sure the other guys passed out almost immediately.

"Nah, definitely not a geek. That's really interesting. What do you want to do with that?" Sam presses on. I admire his genuine curiosity. He gets points for that. I sigh dramatically because I hate the follow-up question almost as much as I hate the actual question.

"Oh, I've been torn between government and law for quite a while now. I can't seem to make up my mind."

"No kidding. I was going to go to law school!"

"What stopped you?" I ask him suddenly. I'm already beginning to second guess my occupational future and I wonder if my reasons are similar to his. Given the current circumstances, I wouldn't guess they were too far off.

"The family business," Sam says simply. He's quiet for a moment. "Then again, I'm sure Stanford had had enough of me. There wasn't anything keeping me there, anyway."

He sounds sad. More than sad. Wistful. Broken-hearted. I wonder who broke up with whom. But maybe it wasn't a break up. As soon as the thought crosses my mind, I know I'm right. It wasn't a break up.

"I'm sorry for your loss."

"Thank you." Sam clears his throat. "It happened almost nine years ago. I still miss her sometimes. But enough about that. Are you ready to graduate in a few months?"

I shake my head but then remember he can't see me. "If they'll let me, yes. At this point, I'll probably finish by August, since I left for a month and missed my finals. Maybe I'll just finish with online classes. I'm already done with this place."

"Yeah," Sam agrees. "That's what this does to you. Your perspective will never be the same. I'm sorry for that."

"Why apologize?" I ask and get a quiet scoff in response.

"Because there goes your life. We've already caused you to re-think your future. That's what you've been doing, right? Re-evaluating everything?"

I'm surprised to hear the angry passion he harbors on the subject. But he's wrong, at least on one level.

"You didn't cause me to re-think anything. The djinn who captured me and hurt my friends did that. All you guys did was help me when I thought no one could. And last I checked, helping a person in need is nothing to be bitter about."

"Touché," Sam concedes and I laugh. I'm not used to winning arguments and, though I suspect he was only humoring me, it's a nice change.

"Are you tired?" I inquire suddenly. The fridge needs some serious supplying and I am nowhere near sleep at almost two in the morning. If I'm going to make everyone breakfast, I'm going to need more than expired milk and flour.

"Honestly? No. Why?" His answer is enough to send me off the couch and into my coat. After slipping my boots on over my pajama pants I run my hands through my hair, satisfied with what little effort I've put into the haphazard ensemble.

"We're going to Walmart. Get your coat. And the keys would be nice, too."

While Sam gets ready, I remember the tin Alex kept under the sink for our 'rainy day fund'. I can't believe I'd forgotten about it when I left the first time. It would have helped significantly. Upon counting it all out, there was over five hundred dollars. He was so anal about putting a certain percentage of both of our meager checks into the tin. At the time, it was annoying, but I humored him. Now I'm glad I did. I grab two hundreds and close the tin, careful to make as little noise as possible, and follow Sam out the door.

§§§

"Did you tell Dean we were leaving?" I ask Sam as we load the groceries onto the conveyor belt of the only checkout line open. We'd been standing in line for forty five minutes, waiting for the three older women get through their cartloads. It felt nice to finally do something productive.

"Uh, yeah." He lifts the bags of softener salt he'd insisted on picking up "just in case".

"Your total is $132.97," the cashier tells us. I step in front of Sam and smile at the guy before fishing for correct change in my wallet. Sam moves the bags from the rack into the cart and I wait for the receipt.

"Have a nice night," cashier guy says and I could swear he winks at me. Which is more than strange. I return the sentiment, without the wink, and begin pushing the cart away. Sam grabs the bags of salt and holds them over both shoulders. As he goes to join me, however, I hear the cashier whistle and say something about being lucky. I shake my head slightly and continue to the exit, confused about what just happened.

On the way back to the apartment, I decide to ask about what the cashier said. Sam chuckles and continues through an intersection with a green light. "He said he wished he could be as lucky as me. Referring to you, I think."

"Really?" Though I wasn't expecting that, the wink makes more sense. We arrive back at the apartment and I get out first to avoid Sam's answer.

"Why are you surprised?"

I don't say anything because what is there to say? I've never been one to attract a lot of attention from guys. Being undeniably curvy, I would watch from the sidelines as my thin friends dated the guys I liked. And I would be happy for them, as long as they were happy. I wasn't about to tell this to anyone, let alone Sam. We're here to stop a djinn, not discuss my pitiful love life.

"No reason. After I'm done putting this stuff away, I'm going to take a shower and get some sleep. Thanks for coming with me, Sam."

"No problem. Do you want help with anything?" I close my eyes at his offer and wish the red in my cheeks would just go away.

"That's okay," I say as we get through the door. "Thanks though. Good night." I rush into the kitchen and busy myself with organizing the new groceries. I can hear Sam dropping salt around the windows and doors as a precaution. We don't speak again until morning.

§§§

"Good morning Emily!" Dean greets me cheerily when he wakes up. I'm busy frying bacon and mixing more batter for the waffle maker, so I turn to smile at him and go back to my work.

"Morning guys," I call out once I hear Garth and Sam join Dean in the dining room. They're arguing about something but I've found that arguments are normal between the three of them.

As I stir the batter and add vanilla, a sudden brush of cool air startles me and I drop the spatula on the floor. Standing before me is the trench coat man from a week ago.

"Hello," he says cordially. His tan trench coat is slightly wrinkled over a dress shirt and dress pants. His black hair sticks up in spikes and when I make eye contact with him I'm shocked by the dramatic blue of his eyes.

"Uh, hi," I stumble over words to say and then realize waffle batter is now spread across the kitchen floor and my pants.

"Cas, is that you?" Garth stands at the bar and, once he sees he was right about Cas, envelopes the other man in a tight hug. The guy, Cas, pats Garth on the shoulder stiffly and turns to me once again. "You have a lovely home."

Damn, the guy is polite for someone who just shows up in houses uninvited. I turn back to the stove and finish the bacon. Soon, the waffles are finished and I bring the spread to the table, where I'm completely ignored. Everyone's staring at Cas, as if calculating his very presence.

"What are you doing here?" Dean growls. "After all this time?" The air crackles with tension and I cut in, insisting Cas is here for breakfast. Dean doesn't buy my excuse but leaves the subject alone.

"Dig in," I tell them. "I'll be right back.

I clean the kitchen quickly and grab napkins for everyone. When I return, Cas is nowhere to be found. All that can be heard is the grating sound of chewing. The extra plate on the table, for the now absent man, is bare in front of the last open seat. And apparently that's all. Case closed.


	5. The Monster in the Warehouse

Dean

"So are you going to address the elephant in the room?" Sam asks when we leave Em's apartment after lunch. Garth's staying behind to keep watch over Emily while we go look for Professor Douchebag.

"I don't see any elephants, Sammy," I look around us for affect. The short walk to the rest of campus reveals nothing more than students hurrying to classes. Em told us this was the last Monday of the semester, which would explain why everyone appears to be on the brink of death.

"Dean. Why're you so jumpy with Cas all of a sudden? Last I checked, we were on fairly good terms with him."

There it is – the question I've been trying desperately to avoid. Normally, I tell Sam everything. Okay almost everything. Okay, I tell him only what he needs to know to keep him safe. Which, now that we're "only coworkers," and not brothers, is probably a bad idea. But as far as Sam's concerned, he doesn't need to know that I drunkenly prayed to the angel after watching a stupid Lifetime movie. Goddamned moonshine. Cas just disappeared without saying anything once he realized I was drunk. For a month. So I do what I do best and change the subject.

"Hey, any idea where we'll find a professor Jordan?" I grab a kid walking by and flash him my – Robert Plant's – FBI badge. The kid looks up from the ground, probably shocked to be startled from his train of thought. He looks like he hasn't slept in months and he's clutching a coffee mug for dear life. Dear lord am I glad I never went to college.

"You mean _Doctor_ Jordan?" He finally responds and pulls the hood of his sweatshirt tightly around his white hair. Who at his age has white hair?

"Yes, you over-caffeinated moron," I snap. He glares at me and takes a long sip from his beloved mug.

"_Doctor_ Jordan has a class until three twenty. His office hours are –"

"Great! The FBI thanks you!" I pull Sam away before I punch the kid in the face. He was way too snarky for me to hold off much longer.

"Dude, he was going to tell us when Jordan's office hours were," Sam bitches as he jogs to keep up with me. "'The FBI thanks you'?"

"He's an English prof," I remind him and choose to ignore the jab. "One of us will go to his class and the other can break into his office. Can't be too hard to find."

After a rigged game of Rock, Paper, Scissors, Sam lopes away to Jordan's class and I'm stuck with the wonderful task of breaking and entering. At least I've remembered the lock pick this time.

It doesn't take long, thankfully, to be directed to the English offices. Jordan's is on the third floor, room 367. But room, once I've slipped inside, is a generous descriptor. The space is limited to a cluttered computer desk and two chairs. And papers. So many papers; there had to be at least half a forest resting on every available surface.

It soon becomes apparent that everything not in drawers belongs to the dude's students. But I'm lucky to find one of the filing drawers unlocked. Inside are files about taxes and education conferences. It's all so professional that I almost skim past the document at the bottom. Upon closer inspection, I see it's the deed to some building outside of town. Not a house, but some type of warehouse or factory. I send a quick text to Sam, letting him know I found something, and lock the door behind me, careful to remain unseen.

§§§

As we near the apartment complex, Sam stops speaking in the middle of recounting how weird Jordan is.

"…He was just _creepy_, I swear. Hey, where's Garth?"

I look up and scan the parking lot for Garth's hideous excuse for a vehicle. The thing is nowhere to be found.

"I'll give him a call, but they probably went to get stuff for dinner or something," I wave Sam ahead and stop at the Impala to grab a few of my knives, just in case. Sam's held an elevator for me as I dial Garth's number.

"Yello?" Garth answers after a few rings.

"Hey, man. Did you guys go to dinner?" I rest the phone between my head and shoulder once we get to the sixth floor, trying to conceal my weapons as best I can. Sam tries the door to Em's apartment, finds it unlocked, and goes inside. "And if you did, could you bring us back something?"

"Oh sorry, Dean. I got a call from one of my buddies who lives in the area, so I'm at his house."

"Emily's not here," Sam comes back to the hallway and I can see him doing his best not to worry. A flame ignites somewhere in my chest and I can barely contain the anger as I yell at the man.

"So you're saying you left Emily alone?" The entire point of leaving Garth behind was so Em would be protected. If you want something fucking done right, you gotta do it yourself.

"Well, yeah, but I've only been gone for about twenty minutes. I thought she'd be okay for twenty – "

"You thought wrong! She's gone, nowhere to be found. Why would that be okay?" I'm yelling into the phone now and have to give it to Sam so I can check for myself.

To my dismay, each of the rooms is empty, as if she'd just gone down to someone else's apartment. Her coat is on the hook and her wallet is on the counter where it was before we'd left.

"Let's not freak out, too much, Dean. She might still be here," my brother joins me in the kitchen, repeating my thoughts to me. But something doesn't feel right. Something's off.

"No, she's not here. But I think I know where she is," I say, remembering the deed I'd found earlier. I pull it out of my suit jacket and shove it into Sam's hands before darting out the door and sprinting to the car.

Lamb's blood…lamb's blood… Once my hands close around the small jar, I slam the lid of the trunk and get into the driver's seat. Sam yanks the passenger door open and barely has time to close it before I'm peeling out of the parking lot.

"Turn here. Follow the curve. Just keep going," Sam directs from beside me. For the first time since he purchased it, I am so glad Sam bought that stupid smart phone. Google maps has never been more useful.

"Hey, Dean. When we find her and close up this job, do you think we can, I don't know, bring her back with us?"

"She's got a family, Sam. She'll probably want to get back to them after we're done with Jordan." I take a few deep breaths and hold them in as I feel blood rush to my head. I'm so angry and frustrated, I can barely speak.

"She'll want to see them, sure," Sam concedes, "but I'm almost positive she'd join us if we asked. She already did once."

I somewhat relax at the idea. "Yeah well, we'll get to that when we get there. Step one is saving her ass. Again."

"She'd like the library," he mutters. Of course she would, she's like Sam's twin. The first thing I'll do, though, is give her a gun. Show her how to use it properly. Whether she stays or not, she needs to learn.

"You show her your nerd books, dude. Just tell me how close we are." I press the accelerator as far as it'll go and only let up at Sam's signal to turn.

We're at a gravel lane now, just off the bypass. It's so choked with trees that I would've missed it if we were just driving by.

§§§

"I'm going in," I announce once I pull the car to a stop in front of the building. As far as warehouses go, this one's pretty average. The moon shines across the high windows and lights up the snow in an eerie way.

"I'll go around back," I hear Sam say from behind me. I throw up a hand in acknowledgement and slink through the unlocked steel door.

"Help me! Please!" A shout echoes off the walls once I'm inside. "Please, God, help!"

A light pours through a small window on the second floor and before I realize what I'm doing, I'm halfway up the metal stairway. My legs carry me forward, faster, and I burst into the lit room to find the kid from earlier strung up from the ceiling of what appears to be a break room. A mildewed couch is pushed against the far wall, close enough to the guy for him to struggle for a grip on its arm with his feet.

"Oh thank God," he breathes and wiggles more, wincing at the cut of the rope on his wrists.

"God's not here," I tell him before reaching up to cut him down. "What's your name, kid?"

"Curtis. Thank you so much, you literally saved my life." No shit, Sherlock. I bite my tongue for the thousandth time today and choose, instead, a somewhat decent answer.

"Don't mention it. Have you seen a girl, with dark blonde hair? Glasses?"

"You mean her?" Curtis asks and points behind me. I look over my shoulder just in time to be shoved backward. Curtis, who a minute ago looked relieved to see me, is grinning wickedly and pointing a gun right at my chest.

"Don't worry," he laughs, "I can't do anything to you. That's for Jordan to handle. But he did say your little friend is mine for the taking."

He backs up slowly and reaches the back of the couch, yanking it away from the wall. A shoe lashes out and jabs the dude under the chin.

"_Fuck_, you bitch!" Curtis howls and reaches down to yank the person up. Muffled screams sound and I've never been more relieved to see it's her. Em, though bound in duct tape with tear streaks down her face, is alive. I tighten the grip on the knife resting just above my palm in my sleeve and wait for the right moment to move.

"Now, now, Curtis. What did we discuss about noise levels?" A well-dressed man in a dark blue suit strides purposefully into the room.

"Sorry, professor. The bitch kicked me," the blonde explains, looking up into the face of the man.

"Oh it's perfectly fine, Curtis. How about you remove that tape from her mouth, so our dear _guest_," he turns to look at me with an amused smile, "can hear better?"

Curtis obeys and rips the tape off of Em's mouth with a sharp tug. She's shaking, her mouth trembling as his hands never leave her.

"Thank you, Curt," Jordan says before producing a gun and shooting the kid in the stomach. He pitches forward, his legs giving out from underneath. "Isn't that better?" The professor asks rhetorically. He chuckles and turns his gaze to Emily, his skin lighting up in a lethal promise. Now's the time to act.

I release the blade from my sleeve and pull the jar from an inner pocket in my coat. Em's eyes dart to me, frightened and pleading, and I motion for her to be quiet. She swallows and looks back at Jordan, tries to press herself as close to the wall as she can.

She's so convincing in her act that the professor is actually surprised when the blade, coated in lamb's blood, plunges into his neck. He hisses and lashes his arms anywhere he can touch, eager, even in death, to spread his poison.

And as quick as it started, it's over; the djinn has vanished, and everything's okay again.

Except it's not.


	6. A Pyre of Goodbyes

Dean

"Dean?" Em calls my name to get my attention after I've surveyed the overall damage. Not bad. The creepy blond kid is dead but I view it as collateral damage. The dude was a fucking psychopath.

"Dean?" She says again, her voice filled with fear. I'm about to explain that it's all over, that there's nothing to be afraid of, when I see her clutching her stomach. Small, rose colored streams seep between her fingers, and her face is paler than the time I took her drinking at that horrible bar.

I watch as her knees buckle out from under her and I catch her at the last second, lowering her gently to the floor. I arrange her so I'm supporting her torso against my chest, all the while being careful not to disturb her wound.

"Here," I say, and remove my jacket to use as a press. Her hands fall away weakly and her head rests on my shoulder. "It's going to be okay," I whisper as I press her abdomen firmly. I have to stop the blood. Her eyes flutter briefly before closing completely.

"No, _you're_ going to be okay," Em insists, though her tone lacks its normal determination. Always arguing with me.

"Yes," I agree, "I _will_ be okay. But so will you. We'll get you to the hospital and stitch you up good."

At that moment, Sam bursts through the door. His shirt is covered in blood, and I don't want to know why, and he's breathing hard. I bite back every sarcastic comment that pops into my mind and dig in my coat for my keys.

"Get the car," It's an order, and I'm relieved when Sam catches the key ring and obeys without saying a word. He's got eyes. He knows why.

"Hurts," Emily murmurs. I push the hair from her face and suck in a difficult breath.

"I know it does. It won't for long, though. Sam's getting the car. Everything will be fine once we get you to the hospital."

Time slows, as we sit together, until every second feels like hours gone by. She coughs shakily and buries her head against my chest, and it's almost too much for me to sit through. I stroke her hair and repeat how she'll be okay. I'm not sure if she believes it, but I have to.

It isn't until a few minutes later when I realize the grip on my shirt has loosened slightly. Her eyes haven't opened and her chest has slowed to almost a complete standstill. And then it stops altogether.

"No! Please, no!" A voice pleads. Whoever it is sounds angry and desperate, like their heart is being wrenched from their chest. Arms close around me and I find myself stifling a sob. The voice is me, screaming as I see Emily's lifeless body.

"Bring her back!" I yell into the unforgiving air. Sam struggles to pull me away and I don't understand why. She's dead, just like everyone else, but not for long. Not if I have any say in it.

"Cas! Cas, where are you? I need you!" My throat begins to close up, raw from the sobs that have taken residence. I cough hard and fight back the damned tears that begin to pool in my eyes.

"She's gone, Dean. She's gone. I'm sorry." Sam repeats himself over and over, but he's wrong. I want to shake him, make him understand, when Cas appears. I've never been so relieved to see the angel.

"Cas, bring her back, man. Please, I'm begging you. She has a family!" Finally, I slip away from Sam's gigantor hold. Picking up her body is like lifting cotton or a pillowcase – she's so light, it's inhuman.

Cas takes her from me, his face smooth and devoid of emotion. The only trait that gives him away is the slight crinkling of his forehead, between his eyes.

"I cannot do anything for her," he says simply and sets her small body on the ground. His response isn't enough and I tell him so.

"That's not an option, Castiel." In the heat of the moment, I use his full name. I am floundering, grasping at anything that could possibly help her. Cas eyes me sadly.

"Gadreel! The fucker healed Charlie when he was inside Sam!" I remember suddenly. "She came back, no harm done!"

The angel shakes his head and Sam scoffs, narrowing his eyes at the mere mention of the more recent of my mistakes.

"That is because Charlie had her soul," Cas informs me with his gruff voice. "Emily's has already moved on.

The solution is simple. "Then let's bring her back."

Cas shakes his head at the suggestion and I realize he doesn't know how serious I am about this.

"She's marked, Dean," the angel begins. "The veil, it cannot be breached as simply as what Gadreel did. It is too late to do anything."

I grab my hair in frustration and kick the ground. "Goddammit!" Cas gives me one last, apologetic look (if not slightly reproachful for my choice of swear word) before disappearing and leaving me with Sam.

"I'll give you a few minutes," Sam tells me, his voice thick with emotion. The closing of a door is followed by silence.

"I promised you," I whisper. The hole from the bullet is small, left only a small ring of blood on her shirt. Her hands, though, are stained red, as well as her lips. And even when I know she's dead, if I didn't know better, I'd say she was sleeping. Her eyes are closed behind her glasses and her mouth is set in a peaceful smile.

Yeah, I'd promised her. Like I'd promised Kevin. And Mrs. Tran. Dad. What was that saying about making promises you can't keep? To not make them. How did this even happen? Not even a day ago, she was teasing me and Sam at breakfast. We were planning to take her back to the bunker. She was going to have a room of her own, if she wanted to stay. I was going to teach her how to use a gun. Sam called dibs on showing her the library, as if I would fight him for that opportunity.

After a few minutes, something steels inside of me and my tears dry. I am numb, inside and out. My breathing has returned to normal. Just like that, a switch has been flipped. I swallow thickly and scoop her body into my arms once again before carrying her out to the clearing behind the warehouse.

Sure enough, Sam is there, watching the flames grow higher in the pit he miraculously organized from branches and leaves. The snow on the ground here has melted and I barely notice the soft way my shoes sink into the wet topsoil. Sam hands me a sheet and a length of rope and I set wordlessly to the task of preparing Em for a hunter's burial. Once it's finished, we cover our tracks, like this is any other job, and set off down the hidden drive to reach the highway. Neither of us say a word for a very long time.


	7. One Year Later

1 year later

Dean

"Damn it, Sam. If you mess with the radio one more time, you are walking to Alabama after this trip," I remind Sam when I switch on the radio. He gives a slight snore, feigning sleep to avoid the blame. So I crank the volume until Black Sabbath is blasting at full force. Sammy jumps away from the window, muttering angrily.

"What was that?" I ask him once I've turned the music down.

"Fucking _jerk_!" He repeats and fixes a glare on the windshield. "The hell was that for?! I was sleeping!"

"Bull, you little bitch. You totally changed the station." There's no way he's getting out of this one.

"That's the mile marker," Sam notes. "Stop." I take a long sip out of the Big Gulp we got a few hours ago and ignore my brother. Let him squirm a little.

"Would you just pull over, Dean?" Sam bitches for the fiftieth time since we passed the stupid mile marker we've been looking for. Somewhere, out in the woods on either side of this godforsaken highway, rest the bones of the ghost we've been hunting. It's mid-November and the ground has begun to freeze, ensuring a tough dig for the first few feet of the grave. At two in the morning, I am not looking forward to the ol' salt n' burn.

Suddenly, a figure appears in the middle of the dark road, and I'm forced to slam on the brakes as hard as I can. Sam throws out a string of impressive profanities and I shut my eyes, praying to Cas that neither Baby nor the freak in the street suffer damage. We come to a stop less than an inch away from the guy's legs, which is good because it means I still have time to break them with my bare hands. Who walks in front of a speeding car in the middle of the night? Or at any time of day?

"What the hell are you doing?" I yell at the shadowed figure once I've gingerly shut the car door behind me. Sam's still in his seat, breathing heavily and looking like an idiot. I ignore him and squint to see the person's face in the limited light from the headlights. Light, wavy hair frames the halfwit's visage and I take a step closer.

"Dean, you need to wake up," says an impossible voice. I shake my head to clear away any words I could have misheard, but the words don't change and neither does the voice that said them. It can't be.

"Who are you and what are you talking about?" I shout gruffly, my anger already escalating to get the better of me. I fumble in my pockets for a second before producing the two items I'd been looking for: a flashlight and a small vial of holy water. Upon clicking the light and shining it into her eyes, I toss the contents of the uncorked bottle into her familiar face. Nothing happens. Other than Em, the impossible Em, knocking the vial out of my hands and throwing her arms around my neck.

"You need to wake up, Dean. You have to wake up, now," she repeats over and over again. I'm not asleep. I'm so very much awake, and have been since you died. Can't you see that? If I didn't have Sammy to keep pushing me forward, I would have crumbled when you did. You shouldn't have died. Not like Kevin. Not like everyone else.

"I know," Emily replies to my unspoken confession. "Let it go. Let it go and come back." She steps away, out of my grasp, and backs into the cold, creaking woods behind her. "It's never too late to be what you might have been."

I look to the Impala, to Sammy, and discover them both gone. None of it makes sense but I follow her anyway, the blind seeking sight, and the fear that's settled in my bones melts away with each step.

§§§

Open my eyes. Gasp. Clear throat. Gasp again. I am sitting in an old, uncomfortable office chair in the main room of the warehouse.

"Took you long enough!" Garth exclaims. Garth? What's he doing here? Sam and Emily ignore him and rush forward, battering me with a series of meaningless admonishments.

"Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait!" I hold up a hand and close my eyes briefly in response to the residing headache I felt. "What happened? How are we back in the warehouse?"

Sam looks from Em to me a few times before deciding to tell me what went down.

"When I got back, Jordan had you tied to that chair and you were completely unconscious. He had Em tied in the corner, from the ceiling, and was beginning to finish her off when I stopped him. He said this was what we deserved for what we did to the love of his life. He just kept repeating, 'This is for you, Jenny,' so I asked him who Jenny was. Turns out Jenny was Jennifer O'Brien, the other fear djinn we offed about a year ago."

Emily cuts in to add the rest of the story. "Professor Jordan said it was his plan all along to get you here. He said-" she breaks off for a moment and looks away before continuing. "He said he didn't care what he did to get your attention, as long as he got it," she shudders and blinks away a few tears from her eyes.

"What about the blonde kid, Curtis something?" I ask. He's nowhere to be found and I see Sam wince out of the corner of my eye.

"He was the leader of some suicide group and he teamed up with Jordan to catch your eye," Em replies.

"Morbid. What kind of sick freak actually encourages someone to off themselves, let alone a group of college kids?"

"The kind who wanted us here no matter the cost. And Curtis killed himself before I could stop him," Sam interjects. "It seems like you were just collateral damage," he tells Emily. She shakes her head but then her eyes light up, as if she's just remembered something.

"He told us where we could find my friends," she says, when Garth chooses this time to insert himself into the conversation.

"Were there two guys and three girls?" He asks her. Em nods quickly and Garth's face drops. "I found them on my way in to find you guys. They're in a side garage out back. Or what's left of them. I'm sorry, Emily. He lied."

For a moment, her shoulders slump forward and she rests her hands on her knees, her eyes closed. But then she stands tall and leaves the room. Sam and Garth exchange a look, both of them shaking their heads.

Back outside, Em's leaning against the passenger side door, her arms crossed as she glares at the ground.

"Ready to go home?" Sam asks her. She meets his eyes for a beat before climbing into the backseat. I take the passenger side, knowing Sam would bitch at me if I insisted on driving.

"We're done here," is all she says in response, finality draping across her words. It isn't difficult to know what she means. We're done in this town, this part of her life. So when Sam doesn't go back to the apartment, continuing onto the interstate without a word, she doesn't object.


	8. Mad World

"_I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad; the dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had. I find it hard to tell you, I find it hard to take. When people run in circles, it's a very, very mad world."_

Emily

Curled in the backseat of the Impala and shivering under the guys' duffel bags, I watch as the city falls dark with each mile we cover. There were many almost deaths tonight. Seven actual deaths, if you count the bodies Garth found. Bodies, that's all they are now. Their lives had been extinguished the moment we went missing, wisps of memories and laughter and love gone away with the arrival of Have You Seen This Person flyers.

I wonder what their families would say to me, if they knew I made it. Would they be angry, demanding that I should have taken one of their places? Would they be grateful that at least _someone_ survived the horrific tragedy? I doubt it. I had an advantage none of them possessed. I had two advantages. The odds were unfair from the moment I stepped into that diner.

I should be upset. I should be feeling more than this, this sick sense of relief. Tears prick at my eyes because I realize I don't feel much else. I'm sad for the loss of my friends, but I've already done my grieving over them. I'm safe and I may not know where I'll be in six months, but that's okay. There's no one to tell me what _needs_ to happen. Sam and Dean, silent in the front since we left the warehouse, won't push me for anything, and that is so incredible that I cry harder.

I should be wanting to see my family. My mom, my siblings, my step dad. I should want to run to their arms and never leave. That's what's expected of me. They expect me to come home; they expect me to grieve, to let all of the horrible memories out in favor of new ones. They'll expect me to leave this all behind. But I don't want to. I can't stand the idea of just giving it all up for the expectations I've been raised with.

I squeeze my eyes shut and take in a shuddered breath. The sun is starting to touch the horizon and its faint orange glow on the dark blue sky is reassuring. I've reached a decision. I'm not going back.

§§§

After a very brief and very awkward one-sided conversation from Sam at the thrift store we stop at for clothes, it's decided that I accompany the Winchesters home. I don't mention my plans of not going home. I'm grateful enough for their hospitality and there'll be a time for me to voice it later.

Home, for them, is an old factory building they call 'the bunker.' It's a weird name, mostly because I've come to associate the term with war. Then again, what Sam and Dean do? It's definitely not rainbows and butterflies. Weird names aside, though, the place seems to suit them. It's got high ceilings and classic architecture, a reflection of the Men of Letters they told me. However, as beautiful and welcoming as the place is, the brothers seem to tense up, even more than they were before.

The first night back, after a few days' drive, I was shown my room – a small brick walled room down the hall from the library – and Sam and Dean kept to their own rooms as well. It isn't until after Christmas that they say more than a few words to each other, and even then it's a lame and testosterone charged exchange.

Dean: Have you figured out why those demons were at the diner last week?

Sam: Only lead I have is Abbadon. Can't reach Crowley lately.

Dean: Gee, I wonder why.

Sam: What's that supposed to mean?

Dean: Well, if you hadn't just _announced _to him that we were planning to kill him while he was helping us, he might still be around and we might still have the blade to kill the Wicked Bitch of the West.

Sam: Don't act like killing him isn't on your laundry list of chores.

Me: Hey guys, are there any stores around here? I need more shampoo than what comes in a travel pack.

§§§

Dean teaches me to shoot the day I tell him I don't plan on going home. He looks up from his laptop and squints as if he's trying to decide if I'm serious or not.

"I'm not saying I'm gonna stay here and mooch off you guys," I backtrack quickly and shift from foot to foot. "I just don't feel as if going to see my family would be in their best interest."

Dean nods, slowly, and stands from the table he's been working at all morning.

"Come on, I want to show you something," is all he says before drinking the last of his bitterly black coffee and turning on his heels.

Something turns out to be their weapons room. There's a small, prideful smile on his face as he goes over each wall, explaining which weapons are suited for each monster. I swallow hard when he selects a hand gun – a revolver, as I'm later told – from its mount and hands it to me.

"I'm gonna need a drink."

Dean chuckles, because he thinks I'm kidding but with the cool metal weighing down in my hands, I'm not. He takes me to the next room, a shotgun in his hand and a small box under his arm, and fits a bulky pair of earmuffs atop my head.

"You have a gun range?" I ask, incredulous. How big _is_ this place?

"Put these on," Dean instructs me as he passes over a pair of thick safety goggles. Amazingly enough, they stay in place, even with my glasses in the way. "Yes, we have a gun range," he adds sarcastically.

"Okay with this gun, and _all_ guns, you first need to check if it's loaded. It's a nine millimeter with an eight capacity chamber, so you'll have eight rounds when it's full. The chamber opens like this," he flips the chamber open quickly and shoves it back into place with a click. "Now you try."

I take the gun, careful to keep it pointed low, in the direction Dean had it, and mimic his movement. He smiles when I'm successful and opens up the box on the counter beside us.

"Great. These are the rounds we're gonna practice with. These are just standard bullets. They go in like this," he takes the gun back and demonstrates how to load the chamber. "If we wanted to be careful, we'd leave one of the rounds out. But when it comes to saving some skin, one less bullet will just get you killed. Err on the side of caution and all that shit."

"All that shit," I echo. He laughs and continues with the lesson, a little more loose than he was at the beginning. By the time the afternoon bleeds into the evening, I've learned more about both guns than I imagined I would know about anything pertaining to weapons.

"You did a good job," Dean calls over his shoulder once we've finished putting everything back. A swell of something good rises in my chest at the compliment. Maybe I wasn't wrong about wanting to belong in this life.

§§§

"This entire time, you've taken everything so calmly, as if you've seen, heard, and read worse. Let me tell you something. There's no way you could've. Even what you've seen, so far, is just barely scraping the surface," Dean finally says one night, breaking the silence at dinner. Sam lifts his head from his plate and looks from me to his brother a few times. "So how about a normal reaction?"

"What do you expect?" I swallow my food and meet his green gaze. "What constitutes a normal reaction?" He recoils slightly before straightening in his seat and elaborating.

"The only time you've cried was in the backseat, after you found out your friends were killed. I teach you to shoot and you take to it like a fish to water, but you have literally no experience with any of this. How did you not run, screaming, without a second glance when we told you all of this stuff?"

"Do you know what it's like to go through life without a purpose? Just going through the motions because they're what you're told you're supposed to do?" I ask him. His eyebrows shoot to the center of his forehead in surprise. I assume he knows what I mean.

"Before all of this, which is horrible to say, I had no purpose. I was in college, getting a degree, because no one ever told me not going was an option. So I went to school, because everyone said I would succeed and have the time of my life and everything would change. For almost four years, they were wrong. I found myself in a cycle of monotonous classes that should have interested me, but didn't. I made more friends but they all seemed to do college the right way; they would never understand if I tried to explain how I felt."

I make a show of pushing my food around before stabbing another bite of steak and chewing for a minute. Lifting the glass of water to my lips, I hold up a finger to signal I'm not finished speaking.

"Then change happened and I found myself in a diner in the middle of nowhere. There were these two guys who could have easily left the parking lot _without a second glance_," I say, repeating his words from earlier. "Had they left, I would be dead. But they didn't, because of a piece of pie. And up until the moment you gave me that knife," I look at Sam and smile slightly, "I had no direction. When you guys were in trouble and I was able to help save you, I felt as if I'd just woken up from a nap that's lasted for my entire life."

Dean clears his throat and takes a sip from his beer. Sam coughs. They're clearly uncomfortable with this confession of mine, and I don't blame them. It's crazy. Completely insane to admit that the only time you feel alive and useful is fighting what you used to know as "imaginary" predators. I stand from my seat and, before taking my plate into the kitchen, say, "And I cried because while I was sad they died, I felt horrible for thinking that I would rather face the worst djinn you could give me than go back to how I used to live."

In the kitchen, I flick on the small stereo they've let me keep by the sink and choose a random playlist from my mp3 player. The first song, 'Sail' by AWOLNATION makes me crack a smile at the filling sink. Dean would hate this if he were in here. Once the sink fills and I drop the dishes from preparing dinner into the basin, the song ends and changes to Mumford and Sons' 'Little Lion Man.' I sing along as I scrub the pans, my eyes drifting shut every so often to concentrate on the music.

"_It was not your fault, but mine. And it was your heart on the line. I really fucked it up this time, didn't I, my dear?"_


End file.
